The Cross Legged Knight (40 page)

He was irritated to realize he’d begun to share Wykeham’s belief that he was Lancaster’s Becket, that the duke’s henchmen might think the only means of ridding their lord of his irritating churchman was to murder him. What was worse was a sudden certainty that Lucie would go to Emma Ferriby’s house in the afternoon to learn more about Matthew. And there was no way Owen could prevent her from doing so, short of posting a guard at his own home. He prayed to the Virgin to protect Lucie, then forced his mind back to his duties.

Michaelo had suggested that the meeting take place in the archbishop’s own hall, as Stephen Pagnell’s companions were occupying the great hall. Owen found them a quiet quintet, two playing chess with Wykeham’s board and pieces, two others playing backgammon. Stephen sat watching the chess game, but quickly abandoned it when Owen approached. Though small and slender, he had his mother’s skill at creating an imperious presence with stance and clothing. He walked with a wide-legged gait, as if spanning a river from bank to bank with his well-muscled legs.

‘I started for the minster to visit our chapel and your men prevented me,’ Stephen said, coming to a halt far closer than Owen liked. ‘I told you we have no purpose here other than to see that the Bishop of Winchester plays fair with my mother.’

‘My orders are that no one stirs from the palace grounds until the meeting is concluded.’

‘My mother can enter but I cannot leave?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I demand to see Bishop William.’

Owen inclined his head. ‘You have only to clap for a servant and give him a message for the bishop.’

‘I want you to deliver it.’

Owen glanced down at his military garb. ‘I am not dressed for such an errand. I should frighten all the servants coming through the corridors.’

‘You are not amusing.’

‘It is not my business to be so.’

Stephen tried to stare Owen down. He lost in the end, spun on his heel and clapped for a servant. Owen took the opportunity to slip away.

It proved a tedious morning for all after such a tense beginning.

Despite the drizzle, Thoresby sat by his parlour window, the shutters open to the garden, a pile of petitions lying forgotten on the table beside him. Owen was glad of the draft as he stood before the archbishop describing the preparations. He regretted wearing the heavy surcoat and helmet – his role was to organize his men, not fight, and as the day warmed and the drizzle continued it was damned unpleasant. The whole palace seemed to be waiting for the long-delayed confrontation.

Lucie sat on a bench in St Crux churchyard watching for Lady Pagnell and Matthew to leave the Ferriby house. The walk had left her with little breath despite a stop at the market and at Harry Flesher’s butcher shop with the excuse that she wished to tell Jasper’s friend Timothy that her scrip had been recovered, though she knew he would have heard about it – a theft and a murder were just the sort of grist that kept the gossip mill grinding. Her weakness irked her, but did not frighten her the way it had. She began to believe that God had answered her prayers and cast out her devils.

At last she saw Lady Pagnell step out on to Hosier Lane, followed closely by Matthew, his hand ready to support her elbow if she stumbled. A servant trailed them, carrying a sheaf of documents secured with straps. Lucie held herself still as they walked slowly towards Whipmawhopmagate, then she hastened to the house.

Owen and Michaelo straightened as a servant flung wide the door to Thoresby’s hall.

Lady Pagnell sailed in, imperious in her purple robes. But something was wrong. Matthew did not accompany her.

‘My lady,’ said Owen, bowing.

‘Captain.’ She inclined her head a little.

‘
Benedicte
, Lady Pagnell,’ Michaelo said while bowing with a fluid grace.

‘Has my son arrived?’ she asked.

‘He has, My Lady,’ said Michaelo, ‘and all unexpected by us. I am afraid he did not receive as cordial a welcome as he might have hoped.’

‘I did not invite him to attend, if that is what you think. It was my meddlesome steward. I learned of it only this morning.’

‘You are not attended by your steward?’ Owen said, growing anxious.

‘Matthew will join us. He forgot a document and has gone to fetch it.’ She shook her head as if annoyed.

A servant followed behind with a cluster of rolled documents held by two straps, a leather thong threaded between them as a handle. The straps did not match. One looked like the one Owen had found round Cisotta’s neck. Something seemed wrong about that. Matthew had sold the tunic that might prove mute witness to his presence in the undercroft that night, yet
he had continued to use the matching strap.

Lady Pagnell paused just past Owen and turned back to him. ‘Why are you and all your men in war gear, Captain? Is the bishop fearful that my grandsons will drop another tile in his path?’

‘My lord the Bishop of Winchester will explain, My Lady.’

She gave him a little bow and moved on. Thoresby entered the room and moved to greet her.

Owen watched the strapped documents as the servant moved past, frantically reviewing what must be done. There was no time to warn Lucie, Matthew was probably already back at the house. But he could not wait here, wondering whether she was in trouble.

‘I am called away to the Ferriby house,’ Owen told Michaelo. ‘Have Wykeham’s men watch Guy and Alain. Something is not right. I’ve no time to explain.’

He called to one of his men to help him out of his leather surcoat. He could not run through the city with it weighing him down.

Thoresby was irritated by Owen’s hasty departure, leaving him with a hall full of Lancastrians and a delicate meeting over which he must preside, Wykeham’s clerk ready to confront a murderer, but no one to confront. He was about to excuse himself for a hasty consultation with Michaelo when Lady Pagnell proposed to change the seating arrangement so that she and Wykeham would be eye to eye. It promised disaster. Michaelo had planned it so that Thoresby was directly across from her, Wykeham at an angle, thinking peace might prevail if they were not scowling at each other.

‘My Lady, in the interest of peace –’

‘And my son Stephen must sit beside me.’

‘Lady Pagnell, that is not advisable.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I come here in good faith …’

‘My Lady,’ Brother Michaelo said, bending down towards her from behind. She shifted to glare at him, but his deferential demeanour softened her. ‘I should be happy to explain all my reasoning in arranging the seating.’

Thoresby silently blessed him, but it left him with no one to ask about Owen’s abrupt disappearance.

A tense quiet descended on the Ferriby house as Lucie and Emma knelt in front of the large trunk in which Matthew stored his belongings. Edgar was stationed by the front door, John the garden door, and Ivo was out in the garden by the gate to the alley.

‘Remember,’ Lucie said to Emma, ‘we are searching for something he did not dispose of that might prove he had been near the fire, or anything that might reveal his intentions – stolen documents, money, a note from your mother…’

‘She would not be so stupid as to write to him,’ Emma said as she lifted the lid – Edgar had already proved useful in picking the lock.

Lucie hesitated at the sight of the first layer, a comb, worn leggings, a pair of riding boots oiled and wrapped in a cloth. Matthew had no home of his own. This chest contained all his property. She was invading it for what had seemed good cause, but now she felt a trespasser. Emma appeared to have no such reservations about the task. She had already laid aside the top items and a mended shirt as well, beneath which she had uncovered some letters carrying the royal seal.

‘What is this?’ Emma breathed, sitting back on her heels and opening one of the letters.

‘Put it away!’ Edgar cried from the doorway. ‘Matthew is crossing the courtyard!’

Lucie snatched up all the items and placed them in the trunk, but Emma shook her head and slipped the letters beneath a box sitting beside her. There was no time to argue. Lucie dropped the lid and clicked the lock into place as Edgar exclaimed loudly over Matthew’s early return.

But the steward’s eyes had gone straight to the chest, then to Lucie and Emma standing near it.

‘I forgot a document. My lady awaits me at the palace.’ He was moving towards Lucie and Emma when John exploded from behind them, throwing himself at Matthew, a dagger in his right hand.

‘John! No!’ Emma cried.

Matthew crashed backwards. As the two hit the tile floor, Matthew howled in pain.

Edgar and Emma plucked at John as he and Matthew rolled over and over, leaving a trail of blood behind them. When Edgar and Emma finally succeeded in lifting the boy between them, Lucie bent to help Matthew move out of the way of the boy’s kicks – he was bleeding freely from one forearm and his chin – but he snapped his arm out of Lucie’s grasp and rolled towards his attacker, grabbing him by the ankles.

‘You think you’re a man, do you?’ Matthew shouted at John, who was struggling to free himself from his tutor and his mother.

‘Stop this!’ Emma shouted. By now several clerks from the shop had joined them and the five managed to pull John and Matthew apart.

‘Leave him alone, he’s just a boy,’ Emma said to Matthew, who lay sprawled on the floor.

The steward struggled to sit up a little, trying to support himself on his elbows, but his wounded arm
failed him and he moaned as he fell back to the floor. Lucie knelt behind him. This time he did not push her away. With her hands beneath his arms she hoisted, then pushed his upper body into a seated position. From there he was able to use his legs to help her drag him to the wall, which would support his back. Lucie’s hand throbbed.

‘I threatened him and so he hates me,’ Matthew said to no one in particular.

‘Murderer!’ John cried. ‘Thief and murderer!’ He strained to escape the firm grasps of Edgar and Emma. His voice trembled and yet trilled with defiance.

‘A murderer? A thief? What are you talking about?’ Matthew demanded.

Seeing that her friend was preoccupied with her son, Lucie began a litany of the evidence on which the boy based his accusations. The shop clerks and Matthew stared at her in disbelief. She faltered as she began to doubt all that she thought she had known.

Lady Pagnell rose and curtsied to Wykeham as he approached the table. Alain walked beside a servant who carried a writing desk.

‘What is this?’ Wykeham said, looking around at those already seated. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded of Stephen Pagnell.

‘Representing my father, who could not attend,’ Stephen said, visibly enjoying Wykeham’s discomfort.

‘He is Ranulf’s heir,’ Lady Pagnell said, a challenge in her eyes.

‘I pray you, be seated,’ Thoresby murmured to Wykeham. Everyone at the table seemed to be holding their breaths. ‘Sit,’ Thoresby repeated.

As Wykeham finally settled, Thoresby enquired after Guy, who had not accompanied him.

Wykeham leaned close and whispered, ‘While at the garderobe he tried to slip away. He will be escorted in when we are ready for him.’

Thoresby had expected Guy to prove a coward, lacking honour, but he was not gratified to be right.

‘Where is the steward?’ Wykeham asked.

Thoresby explained curtly, not wishing to prolong the whispered conference. Lady Pagnell already grew curious. Owen’s plan to seize the Pagnell steward seemed to be failing before it was ever put into play.

As Owen crossed Hosier Lane to the Ferriby house he was hailed by George Hempe, who strode towards him from Pavement.

‘I thought I might expect you. I noticed your wife waiting here earlier. What’s afoot?’

‘Have you seen the Pagnell steward?’

Hempe nodded. ‘He arrived a little while ago. I’ve found the thief’s murderer, Archer.’ He caught Owen’s arm as he continued towards the house. ‘Don’t you want to know who it was? A fellow thief, after your wife’s purse.’

That was it? Merely thieves fighting among themselves?
Owen cursed and hurried past him. He heard Hempe following.

T
he door to the Ferriby house was open, but no sound met Owen in the courtyard. His heart was pounding when he stepped across the threshold into the dimly lit hall.

The tableau before him was not at all what he had expected. In a far corner of the room, Matthew sat against the wall, pressing a cloth to his head. His right sleeve was empty, hanging from his shoulder on some laces. Lucie knelt beside him, wrapping his bare forearm in a bandage that was already blooming with blood. Emma sat on a bench cradling John’s head against her shoulder – he was crying, his entire body shaken by the sobs. His younger brother sat on the floor near him, clinging to his mother’s skirt, looking confused but uninjured. Edgar and two unfamiliar men stood a little to one side. Edgar spoke quietly to the others, who glanced now and then towards the wounded man.

Hempe strode past Owen and demanded, ‘What has happened here?’